Mystery & Suspense
Read an excerpt from A Plague of Secrets (continued):
"I don't think I've consciously thought about him in five years, and now here he is, big as life. Bigger than he was in life."
Frannie rested a hand on his knee. "This may not turn out the same. Let's hope."
"I don't know if Abe could take it, how anybody does. I don't know how I did."
Frannie knew. Hardy's son's tragedy had marked the end of his first marriage, the abandonment of his law career, ten years behind the bar at the Little Shamrock, averaging somewhere between one and two dozen beers a day, not to mention the rest of the alcoholic intake.
She squeezed his leg reassuringly. "Let's wait till we hear something. You want to come to bed?"
"I want to drink a bottle of gin."
"You could, but you wouldn't be happy about that tomorrow."
"No. I know. Plus, if Abe needs something . . ." He shook his head and looked away, then came back and met her eyes. "Shit, Frannie."
"I agree. But Rachel's going to be up early. We're going to want to be rested. I've got to go lie down. You're welcome to join me."
"I'd be lousy company." Then, softening it, he patted her hand with his own. "Couple more minutes," he said.
And the phone rang.
* * *
"The best bit of news," Treya was saying to both of them as they listened on the two extension phones, "is that he's out of his twos. Evidently the younger you are, the worse the prognosis. Three is way better than two. And this is a Level One hospital, so they had a neurological resident in house, which is also lucky since he could go right to work." Her voice, while not by any stretch cheerful, was strong and confident-sounding. Conveying facts, honing to the bearable news, she was keeping herself together the way she always did, by sucking it up.
"They've cooled him down to make him hypothermic," she went on, "which is what they always do, and taken some scans, and they've got him on a continuous EEG and his vital signs are good, so that's all heartening."
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